


With Kings

by LeetheT



Category: The Man from UNCLE
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-04
Updated: 2014-04-04
Packaged: 2018-01-18 04:35:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1415314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeetheT/pseuds/LeetheT





	With Kings

Napoleon Solo remembered the last thing he’d said to the emir: _I leave you in my partner’s capable hands._

He swore inside his head, a blistering oath. How could he have been so stupid?

He stepped out of the shadowed corridor and onto the broad balcony shaded by tall potted palms and striped cotton awnings, cooled by the stream that ran across it in waterfalls and tiny clear rivers. The artificial oasis echoed the oasis around the palace, a white stone sanctuary surrounded by sand baked by the merciless desert sun.

The emir saw him first; he raised his head to look over Illya’s shoulder, lowering his hand from the Russian’s face at the same time. Illya didn’t move; by that Napoleon knew his partner had recognized his approach. That didn’t make him feel any better; nor did his acute awareness of how close the two men were standing.

“Mr. Solo.” The emir moved around Illya, who turned at the same time. “Welcome back.”

“Emir,” Napoleon greeted him with a nod, not looking at Illya.

~~~

He’d seen it from the start, of course. Seen it and ignored it. Tarikhstan was near to Egypt, but the inevitable joke about denial wasn’t funny.

They’d been escorted into the emir’s presence, their UNCLE IDs cachet even here. Emir Ali Mohammed, dark and splendidly handsome, had risen to greet them, running black eyes over Napoleon, then over Illya. That cool measuring look had slowed, melting as it passed over the Russian, and Napoleon had bristled without knowing exactly why.

The businesslike discussion of the reason for their presence had done nothing to ease him. The emir understood he had enemies in the desert; he understood UNCLE wished to support him in his benign, if not democratic, rule; he acknowledged several attempts on his life, admitting that the last one, a week past, had left him with a knife wound in his shoulder.

Napoleon sought for some trace of braggadocio in the man’s matter-of-fact recitation, but found none. The emir ruled a dangerous land; he understood it and was prepared for it, willing to risk his life to do what he felt was best for his country. Napoleon gritted his mental teeth and admitted it to be courage.

The emir welcomed them as guests and told them what he knew about Khalid’s renegade faction in the desert, plotting his ouster. And, politely, he doubted Solo and Kuryakin could be any more effective than his own bodyguards.

Altogether he was charming and intelligent, regal yet courteous. When, over the fruit ices, he and Illya shared a private joke in some Arabic dialect, laughing together, Napoleon found his fingers curling into fists.

~~~

Illya relieved Napoleon at midnight, allowed past by the guards at the doors to the emir’s private chambers. He met his partner on the balcony just outside the emir’s bedroom.

“You’re worried,” Illya said, moving to Napoleon’s side, both agents gazing out over the lush growth of the oasis to the city beyond, spread white under the velvet black of the cool night sky and the bright light of the old moon.

Napoleon hesitated, caught but unable to reply. His partner stood close, almost leaning on him; Illya’s personal space boundary, fiercely defended as a rule, did not exist for Napoleon. That felt good. It felt especially good, for some reason, tonight.

“Do you think we need reinforcements?” Illya went on, and Napoleon relaxed, realizing he was talking about the mission.

“Here? I don’t know,” he said. “He’s survived four tries already. Once the team leaves tomorrow, Khalid’s men will have their hands full with us. They probably won’t have time for another attempt.” His mind shifted to the strategies they’d already formed for eliminating the renegades. “In a week or so we should know.”

Quietly Illya said, “I still think I should go with you.”

Napoleon smiled, bumped Illya’s shoulder, feeling it solid and warm against his. “I’d prefer it, too. But I need someone here I can trust. Khalid’s men are all over this place; we know he’s got contacts in the capital.” He nodded toward the city spread before them. “I’d hate to go to all that trouble only to come back here and find out they got to the emir while I was gone.”

“Yes, I know how you hate to get dirty for nothing,” Illya said. He scanned the gardens directly below the balcony. “Go to bed then. Assuming the emir survives the night, we’ll see how he feels about acquiring a new shadow.”

_Not that close_. Napoleon almost said it out loud. He moved away from the balcony railing, away from his partner, away from the acute awareness that buzzed in his blood and filled his head with words too dangerous to say.

“Napoleon ...”

He stopped. Silence. “What?”

Illya shook his head, not turning. “See you in the morning.”

~~~

Napoleon heard the shots just as he was kicking off his shoes. He quickly slid back into them, drew his gun and ran for the emir’s apartments, collecting a few palace guards along the way. They stopped at the first pair of doors to move the bodies of the guards who had been stationed there, then burst into the main chamber.

Full moonlight flooded the room. The emir stood in the doorway of his bedroom, his loose white pajamas disarrayed, black hair about his shoulders. He stared at the trio of bodies splayed across the stone floor, then raised his eyes to Illya, standing between the corpses and the emir.

The Russian popped his empty clip, slid it into his pocket, and inserted a fresh one. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”  He holstered his gun. “I’ll use a suppressor next time.”

Napoleon put away his own weapon, hearing the astonished murmurs of the guards behind him. Then the emir grinned and threw back his head; his shout of laughter echoed against the stone walls.

~~~

“Good hunting,” the emir had said, seeing off Napoleon and his desert assault force the next morning.

“Be very careful,” Illya said darkly. Napoleon squinted at his partner.

“You too,” he replied. “Remember they’re not all out there.” He tilted his head toward the distant hills satellite data had revealed as Khalid’s campsite.

“I have faith in Mr. Kuryakin’s skill,” the emir said, turning his black eyes on Illya. The look burned at the back of Napoleon’s throat as the convoy of jeeps drove away from the palace.

~~~

That awareness had churned nameless in Napoleon’s stomach every day of the two weeks he’d spent in the desert hunting down the emir’s enemies. Only now — only a moment ago, seeing the emir touching Illya, seeing Illya allow it — did Napoleon dare to put a name to it.

His partner had succumbed to native dress, billowing pants and tunic of white cotton with a dark sash. That needled Napoleon too. Any change, in this place, from the Illya he knew was to be feared.

He moved forward, using all his skill to avoid limping. He couldn’t help contrasting his appearance — dirty, sunburnt, sweaty — with that of the emir, cool, elegant and impressive in his white and black robes. Normally he’d have been slightly amused to see his partner standing there sleek and unmussed while he looked like he’d been dragged behind a jeep. Today, it bothered him, a sharp irritation he had to swallow down so he could focus on the job.

“We have Khalid.”

Illya’s eyes narrowed and his mouth opened. Then it closed.

The emir smiled. “Well done, Mr. Solo. You have accomplished in two weeks what I failed to accomplish in two years. UNCLE is an admirable organization indeed.” He glanced at Illya, offering another flash of white teeth.

“Don’t get too relaxed,” Napoleon said. “We have no way of knowing whether we got all his men. You’ll need to be on the alert until we’ve interrogated him and his people, tracked down their accomplices.”

The emir nodded. “So much I know already. In your absence, your capable colleague took care of two additional attempts on my life.”

Napoleon glanced at his partner, who met his gaze inscrutably.

“You both have my gratitude, Mr. Solo,” the emir said.

“Agent Carlson is talking to your security chief,” Napoleon said. “There are some things we can help with — security methods — before we go.”

“Again,” the emir said, “my thanks. Perhaps you would like to rest and refresh yourself before dinner, Mr. Solo?”

Illya surged forward. “An excellent idea, emir.” He grabbed Napoleon’s arm, beckoned the emir’s bodyguards nearer with his free hand, and impelled his startled partner swiftly into the palace. The emir watched them go in surprise.

Once in the cool dimness of the stone corridor, Illya asked, “How bad?”

Normally Napoleon would have let himself sink against his partner’s strength. Now, somehow, it seemed important to remain controlled.

“Nothing a night in a seraglio wouldn’t cure,” he joked, hearing how flat it sounded.

Illya slid his arm around his shoulders, muttered, “I see your libido is uninjured, at least.”

Napoleon shook his head, exhausted and sunburnt and dehydrated and filthy and hurting from his head to his heels — and abruptly, disgusted with himself for playing games.

“Bullet hole in my leg,” he said. “Nothing fatal. Just hurts.”

He could sense his partner waiting impatiently, knowing that wasn’t everything.

“And assorted bruises and scrapes and cuts and things. The usual.”

“And?” Illya prompted.

“And I feel like overcooked bacon,” Napoleon added. “That’s all.”

“In deference to your injuries I’ll forego the temptation of ham jokes,” Illya said.

“Thanks,” Napoleon snarled. “I love you too.” He went limp, forcing Illya to support most of his weight. Illya staggered a bit, then braced himself, held on tighter, and continued walking, without complaint.

At that, Napoleon found himself smiling. _I love you too_.

~~~

In the suite they shared, Illya helped Napoleon into the bathroom and onto the commode, where Napoleon stripped off his grimy jacket, shirt and t-shirt. Illya untied his boots and pulled those and his socks off.

Napoleon undid his pants, grimacing as he lifted up enough to push them down his hips.

Illya grabbed the legs, pulled. “Clean exit?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m going to be limping for a while, though.” Between them they worked Napoleon’s pants off. The bandage, high on Napoleon’s left thigh, was blood-spotted.

His partner helped him stand, held him steady while Napoleon pulled his underwear down and stepped out of them.

“I see it didn’t miss your ... libido by much,” Illya said drily.

“Ha. Ha. Ha.” Napoleon glared at him. “I said limping, not limp.”

Illya chuckled. “Can you stand in the shower?”

Napoleon waved him away. “I’ll lean.”

“You’ll want to change the bandage,” Illya said. “I’ll see if I can get some fresh gauze. Do you need stitches?” He bent, touched the edge of the bandage, delicately, and Napoleon, watching Illya’s fingers move across his thigh, suddenly lost control of his lungs and voice.

Illya looked up. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon shook his head, coughed. “No. I don’t need stitches. Just a bath and some food and ...” He snapped his mouth shut. _Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. Especially, don’t feel it_. He turned to the shower, stepped carefully inside.

“Napoleon, the bandage—” Illya called after him.

“I’ll take it off in here,” he said, shutting the opaque door before his partner could see what that brief touch had done to him. _Definitely not limp_.

~~~

A cotton robe awaited him when he got out of a very long shower, hot followed by cool, accompanied by reluctant gratitude that the emir was modern in his beliefs about plumbing as well as governance. Not that thinking about the emir was less dangerous than thinking about his partner.

Napoleon dried off and pulled on the robe, tossing the soggy, stained bandages into the trash and limping out into the bedchamber.

Illya sat at the table by the balcony, cutting up strips of gauze; a breeze danced through his hair, fluttering the loose cotton clothing he wore. Food and drink covered the tabletop, and a bottle of clear liquid stood open beside him.

“Come here,” he said.

“Demanding, aren’t you?” Napoleon replied, but he limped over to his partner, grimacing. How the hell was he going to get out of this one?

“Open your robe,” Illya said.

“Didn’t you want to kiss me first?” Napoleon grumbled. Illya shot him a sarcastic glare; it helped, a little. Napoleon pulled the robe away from his leg, careful to keep his genitals covered without seeming to do so deliberately.

Illya examined the hole in his thigh, daubing it with a pad soaked in the clear liquid.

“Ow!” Napoleon jerked away. Alcohol, of course. _Damn it_. “That hurts!”

Illya slid a hand around his thigh to pull him close again. “Hold still.” He continued dabbing while Napoleon clenched his teeth, overwhelmed by the burn of the alcohol — and by the cool torment of his partner’s fingers on his thigh, inches from his ... libido.

He grabbed a chair, leaning on the back _. Think of girls. Think of camels. Think of anything._

He stopped fighting to pull away, and Illya’s hand slid down his leg before letting go. _Jesus_.

“That’s better,” Illya said. “It looks all right. Bleeding a little, but no sign of infection.”

He picked up the gauze and efficiently rewrapped Napoleon’s thigh while Napoleon stared fiercely at the ceiling and thought about emus. Orangutans. Vienna sausages in those little cans. _No, no sausages. Damn it_.

“There.” Illya sat back and Napoleon tasted air for the first time in 10 minutes. It tasted pretty good. He let his robe fall and sank heavily into the chair, running his eyes over the fare there displayed.

“Am I under house arrest?” he asked. “I remember some mention of dinner with the emir.”

“I thought you might prefer to eat here and then get some sleep,” Illya said. He cocked his head as he gazed at Napoleon.

“What?”

“You look like quite a heathen with that beard.”

“Very har har.”

“I like it.” Illya’s tone was emotionless.

Napoleon braced his elbows on the table, then put his head in his hands. He was truly, fully exhausted. He liked the idea of going to bed. He didn’t like the idea of his partner and the emir dining together, just the two of them. _They’ve been together, without you, for two weeks, you fool. Anything they might have wanted to do, they’ve done_.

“Napoleon?” Illya laid his hand on Napoleon’s arm.

Napoleon shook his head. “I’m all right. Just tired.” He looked up, picked up a glass of water and drained it. “I won’t be sorry to leave this place.”

Illya didn’t say anything. That made Napoleon realize he’d been hoping for agreement. He gathered a handful of grapes, eating them mechanically for a silent stretch of minutes. Illya poured him another glass of water and he downed it.

“Do you ever think about quitting UNCLE?” Illya asked him then.

Napoleon, grape in hand, mouth open, stopped. His partner continued staring out the window at the city, no discernable emotion on his face.

Napoleon ate the grape. His headache was fading. “No. Well ... yes, sometimes.”

Illya looked at him. “That was precise.”

Napoleon put down the grapes, picked up a pear and a knife. “I wonder, sometimes, what good I’m really accomplishing. I wonder if the risks are worth the payoff. But if I knew of any job that would mean more to me than this one, I would do it.” _And if I knew of anyone who meant more to me than you, I wouldn’t be in this ridiculous frenzy of confusion._ He sliced the pear up, quick strokes of the very sharp knife.

Illya smiled slightly. “No, I can’t see you in a job that doesn’t matter.”

“Most jobs matter,” Napoleon said. “In some way, to someone.”

Illya swiped a piece of pear. “You know what I mean. You are addicted to trying to save the world.”

“What about you?” Napoleon shoved a slice of fruit into his mouth. Illya’d clearly brought it up for a reason; he might actually find out what it was if he was careful. “Do you ever think about quitting UNCLE?”

Illya smiled. “No. Not ...” He looked at the slice of pear, turning it about in his fingers. “No.” He took a bite.

“Never?” Napoleon asked. “You’re addicted too?”

Again the furtive smile. “Not in the same way.”

~~~

Napoleon lay back on the bed, desert air cool on his naked body. Candlelight circled the room, glowing golden at the edges of his sight. His leg didn’t hurt. He felt light, floating, hyperaware — so aware he could feel the candle flames flickering against his skin.

He felt the bed shift, looked down to see Illya seated cross-legged at his side, still in white, looking at him. His tunic hung loose, open to his waist, and his hands rested on his knees. Napoleon tried to say his name, but it lodged in his dry throat.

Illya shrugged the tunic from his shoulders and rose up, bending over Napoleon, his eyes, midnight blue in the dimness, locked onto Napoleon’s. He braced himself over Napoleon, one hand on either side; Napoleon felt his body heat, breathed in his clean scent as Illya bent closer.

Their bodies met, skin burning, almost smoking. Illya bore him down against the bed, pinning him there with his weight. Napoleon let his head fall back, feeling Illya’s breath fast and harsh against his face. He stroked his fingers along Illya’s sides, curving them around his back. He felt so hot, fevered, as if he were sunburnt all over.

Illya murmured something, the words unclear but the sound rich as mulled wine in Napoleon’s ear. He shifted his body on top of Napoleon’s, pushing the American’s legs wide with his knee and resting his hips against his partner’s. Napoleon groaned at the pressure against his aching erection, and Illya’s mouth covered his, his tongue slipping inside, offering Napoleon a taste of pears and wine. Napoleon drank in the moist sweet flavors, clutching at Illya, his hips pumping frantically —

— and he awoke thrashing on the bed, alone, hard as stone and sweating under the thinnest of blankets.

“Son of a bitch.” His leg started to throb and he threw off the suffocating covers, sitting up. He stopped there as his brain twirled inside his head, glancing at the sinking sun outside the balcony before letting his eyes fall shut and dropping his head into his hands. Dusk. He’d been asleep perhaps two hours.

After Illya’d left to take care of the wrap-up of the mission, he’d had some wine. Maybe too much, but it had helped him to fall asleep despite the roaring voices in his head.

He forced out a laugh. “That was a hell of a wake-up call.” But he couldn’t laugh off the arousal still coursing through his body. He couldn’t laugh off that his unconscious mind was shouting at him, shouting something he already knew. Something about which he didn’t know what the hell to do.

He got up, limped to the table and poured himself another glass of wine.  

~~~

Napoleon awoke into cool, comfortable darkness, sprawled across the bed. The sound of nightbirds and insects came in from the balcony. His watch told him it was 9 p.m. He’d slept seven hours — not counting the brief disturbance in the middle — and felt much better for it. But why wasn’t Illya back yet? Surely they’d finished dinner hours ago.

He got up — a little dizzy, from the pain in his leg and, probably, the wine — and used the bathroom. He regarded his haggard, sunburnt and bearded reflection. Those two weeks of hunting, of killing, had left their mark on him. He touched the beard, reached for his razor. He should really shave.

But Illya had said he liked it.

Napoleon let the razor lie, going back into the bedroom, thence out onto the balcony. It was beautiful here. Paradise.

Why wasn’t Illya back yet?

He sat in the darkness and gazed down at the gardens, lit by shielded lanterns. Inevitably, like a nightmare, he saw two shapes in white move into the light. The emir — tall, black hair hanging down his back — and Illya, shorter, his hair gleaming golden in the lantern light.

They were speaking, calmly, it seemed, not moving. Napoleon leaned on the balustrade, thankful for the darkness that hid him. He could faintly hear their voices, but had no hope of making out the words. Probably that was for the best.

The emir said something, moving closer, and Illya laughed softly. Again, it twisted Napoleon’s gut to see that Illya didn’t back away, only tilted his head back a little to maintain eye contact. _Too close, too close. Son of a bitch_.

Napoleon clenched his fists and jaw. The emir bent, slowly, and Illya met him halfway. Their mouths touched, a gentle contact that made Napoleon’s blood surge.

The emir drew away, then advanced again, still slowly, but more purposeful. Again, despite Napoleon’s fervent wishes, Illya did not back off. Their bodies and their lips met this time, pressed together for a long moment. The emir’s hands closed about Illya’s arms, pulling him closer.

Biting back a cry of anger and pain, Napoleon moved away from the balcony, back into the palace, fists and stomach knotted. He moved around the room, almost enjoying the pain in his thigh, reveling in the distraction it provided from the rage in his heart. _What the hell is the matter with you?_

Stupid question. He knew exactly what the hell was the matter with him. He was in love with his partner, and his partner was about to leave him.

~~~

Half an hour later he heard Illya come in, felt him move into the room, search for him, spot him out on the balcony. Illya crossed the darkened room, stood in the arched doorway to the balcony.

“Are you feeling better?” Illya asked. Napoleon looked at him for a long time, not knowing how to do this, but needing to do it.

“Napoleon?” Illya stepped closer, concerned.

“Don’t leave,” Napoleon said.

“What?”

“Don’t leave.”

“Napoleon, what are you talking about?”

Napoleon got up. “Don’t pretend you don’t know.” His vision jittered and he leaned on the wide stone balustrade.

Illya went to the table and picked up one of the two empty wine bottles. Napoleon expected his partner to berate him, a convenient way to change the subject.

Illya put the bottle down.

“Ali ... the emir wants me to stay here,” he said, surprising Napoleon. So he wasn’t going to avoid the subject after all.

Ali, Napoleon thought, unreasoning hate flaring in his stomach. “I know he does.”

“I don’t mean just as a bodyguard.”

Napoleon said, “I know.”

That surprised Illya. “You know?”

“And I know you aren’t ... completely averse to the idea.”

Illya looked past him, toward the gardens below. “You saw,” he said, his voice dangerously flat.

“I saw.”

Illya held up the bottle. “Is that what this was all about?” he asked, almost accusatory.

Napoleon laughed. “No. Well, not exactly.”

Illya put the bottle down — dropped it, really — and came out onto the balcony, close to Napoleon. He didn’t seem angry, but he was clearly not happy.

“Napoleon, what is going on here?” he demanded.

Napoleon wanted to grab him. He wanted to hold him, make him stay, make him understand. _Make him want me the way I want him._

Instead, he forced out calm words. “He’s offering you ... well, everything, isn’t he? Wealth, comfort ... a chance to live like a prince and still do some good in this world. Without getting shot at regularly.”

“Yes, he is.” Illya smiled — sadly, it seemed, and Napoleon’s heart twisted.

“Illya. Don’t leave.”

“We had this conversation earlier,” Illya said.

At first Napoleon couldn’t remember it. All he remembered was the emir and Illya in the garden, their bodies moving together. The emir touching Illya’s face, and Illya not moving away.

“That was different,” Napoleon said. “That was about ... about UNCLE. About the job. This is ... different.”

Illya edged closer, chin lifted, eyes challenging. “Different how?”

“This is about ... about you and me. I don’t want you to leave me.”

The cool expression crumbled. “Napoleon.” Illya laid his hand on his partner’s arm. “What makes you think I could?”

“Illya ...” Confused, hoping, Napoleon stammered, “Do you ... are you saying ..?”

“I am saying that I would rather be your partner than his ... lover.”

Astonishment burst in Napoleon’s chest. With no idea what he was going to say — except yes, yes to everything — he opened his mouth.

Illya held up a hand. “I know. I know you don’t ...” His mouth quirked. “Don’t have any interest in men. I know. Don’t worry. I know where I stand.”

Napoleon smiled, amazed. It sounded very much as if Illya was saying he loved him — or at least desired him. And believed that desire one-sided. He said, “I’m not sure you do.”

Illya’s face went cold — followed by Napoleon’s gut. _Damn. Now what_? The hand fell away from his arm.

“Are you saying that ... you no longer wish me to be your partner?” The Russian’s voice was frigid, controlled. “Because of all this?”

Napoleon laughed softly. _Christ, what a comedy of errors_. “Illya.” He moved against his partner, ignoring Illya’s astonishment, the brief wariness that stiffened his body.

“I’m saying what I should have said a long time ago.” He leaned against Illya, pinning him gently between the wall and his body, knowing that, despite any misunderstandings, Illya would trust him, would let him trap him thus, as he would allow no other to do. That knowledge flooded him with heat. He slid his arms around his partner’s shoulders, pulling him close, burying his face in Illya’s neck, where the pulse danced frantic against his lips.

“Na ... Napoleon?”

“Mm.” Napoleon leaned against Illya; automatically his partner’s arms went around him to hold him steady.

“Napoleon...” Illya’s astonishment was clear even in a whisper. “What are you doing?”

Napoleon kissed Illya’s throat and lifted his head. “I’m asking you a question.” He held his partner’s amazed eyes. “I’m asking you what the emir asked you. I’m asking you to stay. With me.”

Illya stared. “You ... you’re asking me?”

“I’m asking you not to leave me,” Napoleon said. “I don’t want to lose you. Not to anyone or anything.”

Illya met his gaze, blue eyes painful in their honesty. “Napoleon. You ... you cannot lose me. How is it that you do not know that?”

Napoleon kissed him. Illya’s mouth was warm and alive under his, electrifyingly real; even the unfamiliar feel of his beard against Illya’s skin excited him.

He drew back, breathing hard, as Illya’s eyes drifted open, unfocused, enticing. “I haven’t known a lot of things that I should have known.” He raised one hand to Illya’s face, tracing his cheek and chin, then kissed him again. “Or, maybe I knew it all along, but was too stupid, or ...”

“Napoleon—” Illya grabbed his shoulders. “Shut up.” He pulled Napoleon hard against him. His kiss was surprisingly gentle — for about a second. Then he laid claim to Napoleon’s mouth and tongue as no woman had ever done, breathing fire down Napoleon’s throat and throughout his body. That, combined with the wine and his still somewhat battered state, left his legs shaking and his heart racing.

Illya drew back abruptly and Napoleon swayed, gasping for air. Illya’s hands stayed firm on his shoulders, steadying him. His eyes also stayed firm, but had the opposite effect; looking into their sparking depths made Napoleon dizzy.

“Okay,” Napoleon panted the words, his fingers creeping up Illya’s chest. “I’ve shut up. Now what?”

Illya bore him backward, guiding him, supporting his weight as they moved to the bed. There he stopped, pulled open Napoleon’s robe, and shoved him backward onto the bed, climbing over him.

“Hey!” Napoleon said, trying not to laugh. “I’m an invalid. Take it easy.”

He lay still as Illya moved over him; the sight brought back his dream. Seeing his partner above him, flushed and intent, sent a tingle across his skin.

Illya leaned in, inches from Napoleon’s face, eyes locked on his partner though he wasn’t touching him.  Napoleon felt his partner’s knees on either side of his hips, his hands braced above his shoulders.

“Do you want me to take it easy?” Illya’s low voice hummed along Napoleon’s spine. He rubbed his cheek against Napoleon’s beard, first the left side, then the right. His tongue passed over Napoleon’s lips, and the American raised his head to make a real kiss out of it. Illya allowed him access to his mouth for a moment, then pushed him back down and stood up.

Napoleon lifted himself up on his elbows and watched, enthralled, as Illya undid his sash and let it drop, letting the loose cotton tunic fall from his shoulders and sliding the equally loose leggings free.

“Illya...” A sense of self-preservation stopped him from blurting out words his sarcastic partner would never let him live down. But Jesus. He _was_ beautiful. Gold and blond and hard — with no egotism to dilute his beauty. All his attention, all his admiration, was on Napoleon; his eyes raked along Napoleon’s body as he crawled over him once again, this time using his knee to spread Napoleon’s legs. The American lay back, buzzing all over, hearing his own shallow panting — hearing his own guttural moan as Illya lay his body against him, hot and hard.

“God...” Napoleon’s hips moved of their own accord, thrusting, grinding. Illya caught at his reaching arms and held them down, laying his face against his partner’s. His voice in Napoleon’s ear grated with need and control.

“Do you still want me to take it easy?” He worked his hips against Napoleon’s, and the American gritted his teeth, groaned out something like: “No.”

Illya tickled his face over Napoleon’s, brushing his clean-shaven skin against his partner’s soft beard. He released Napoleon’s hands, but when Napoleon reached for him he slid away, down his partner’s sweat-sprinkled torso. Napoleon’s reaching hands clutched instead at the rumpled blankets when he felt Illya’s breath on his stomach, his lips and tongue tracing a teasing line downward.

Napoleon bucked upward, instinctively, and Illya caught his thighs — his right hand closing gently on Napoleon’s left leg, below the bandage. Napoleon found in his raging brain space for half a thought about Illya’s caring — then Illya took Napoleon in his mouth and thought vanished in a white flare of sensation. He thrust against Illya’s strong hold, and his partner released him, sitting up to look at his face. Napoleon forced his eyes open. His heart slammed against his ribs.

“Shall I continue?” Illya purred, almost a dangerous sound.

Napoleon swallowed down a groan. He’d never been threatened with pleasure before. He unknotted one hand from the blankets and reached for his partner, touching his face with shaking fingers.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Illya said, smiling briefly. He bent to lick the crimson head of Napoleon’s erection before taking him in his mouth again, deep, tight, sucking firmly as Napoleon writhed under him.

Too much. It felt too good, too incredible. All the sensation contracted, shrinking into a point of light — then exploding. Napoleon called out his partner’s name as he came; Illya’s mouth and hand worked him until he was drained, wrung out, his lungs groping for air.

“You...” he gasped out. “You too.” He gulped in a breath, reached down to pull his partner up, their sweat-sheened bodies sliding against each other. “I want to touch you.” One arm around his partner’s shoulders, he slid his other hand down Illya’s stomach, slipped wet fingers around his erection. Illya bucked against him, emitting soft whimpers of need. Napoleon worked Illya’s cock slowly, lovingly, enjoying the feel of his partner’s body moving against him. Illya pressed his mouth over Napoleon’s, moaning, clutching Napoleon, pulling him closer as his hips drove into the American’s squeezing hand. Napoleon tickled the velvety tip of Illya’s cock with his fingers, then grasped it again, stroking faster in response to Illya’s frantic motions.

Illya arched back abruptly, fingers digging into Napoleon’s arms, then bent to set his teeth against the hard muscle of Napoleon’s shoulder as he came, shuddering in Napoleon’s grip, groaning against his body as hot fluid spurted between them. With a final long sigh Illya went limp in Napoleon’s hold, still holding him close, rubbing his face against Napoleon’s bearded cheek.

They lay still for a time, calming, feeling the turbulence in the air around them settle into peace.

Napoleon whispered, “You are amazing.”

His face in Napoleon’s neck, Illya chuckled.

“You find my observation humorous?”

“Not the observation,” Illya said. “The timing. It took the emir two weeks. It’s taken you two years.” He kissed Napoleon’s sweat-damp throat, erasing at least some of Napoleon’s irritation at the mockery.

“I never said I was a quick study.” Napoleon lifted himself up on one elbow to meet Illya’s gaze. “But I can tell you one thing that he can’t.”

“Are you going to tell me you love me?” Illya said, his tone just shy of mocking.

“And if I were?” Napoleon said.

Illya visibly fought a smile. “What makes you so certain the emir didn’t say that to me also?”

Napoleon’s heart plummeted. “That bastard.”

“I’m insulted that you assume he was insincere,” Illya said.

“Illya. I don’t assume that at all.” Napoleon touched his face, fingers tickling along his jaw. “I think I probably fell in love with you after a few days myself, and I’ll grant the emir is not a stupid man.”

Illya scowled at him.

“Are you telling me you haven’t been able to decide between us?” Napoleon tried to keep his tone calm, while his heart shriveled. If the emir loved Illya, what could Napoleon offer that was better? His own love? Set against the love of a prince, it didn’t seem like much. Yet, Illya was here, with him, now.

_You don’t know where he slept while you were in the desert. Damn it._

“I don’t care how much he loves you,” Napoleon said, knowing he sounded like an idiot and content to run with it. “I don’t care how much he says he does, or how much he actually does. I love you more.” Thinking he might as well complete the image of petulant child, he crossed his arms over his chest with a snort. “So there.”

“With your typical self-absorption,” Illya lectured him, his fingers trailing up over Napoleon’s arm and chest, “you are forgetting one important point.” He stroked Napoleon’s beard, a gentle, affectionate gesture that took the sting from his words.

“And with your typical glee in castigating your adoring and long-suffering partner,” Napoleon replied, “I’m sure you’ll enlighten me.”

“ _I_ do not love _him_.”

Napoleon lifted his head, reaching to turn his partner’s face toward him.

“Does that mean what I think it does?” he asked, holding his breath.

“Maybe.” Illya smiled. “Do you suppose I can get you to keep this?” He tugged on Napoleon’s beard.

“No.” Napoleon shook his head. “I would die for you. But I won’t keep this ridiculous beard. Not even for you, my gorgeous Russian friend.”

Illya sighed. “It was worth asking.”

 

The End

 

_“... For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings_

_That then I scorn to change my state with kings’.”_

_— Sonnet 29_


End file.
